*The chapter I think we've all been waiting for…and one that I've been a little impatient to write. From here on out the story gets darker as the chapters go. Brief mention of suicide in the second section.*

Chapter Fourteen—Catalyst

The next couple of days passed slowly for the League. No one seemed to take less notice of it than Sawyer, and it was starting to worry Allan when, on the third day of waiting to make their move, the American had still refused to speak to anyone. He took the time to sit with the boy everyday but Tom gave up no indication that he'd known the hunter was there. He ate when the time came, with everyone else in the dining room, but every time someone would steer the conversation his way or prompt him to speak, his mouth remained closed.

But, true to his word, Allan refused to push him. When the boy was ready, he would come to him. Quatermain told himself that by the hour, and at the end of every hour he grew more apprehensive of that promise. It was more than disturbing to witness the change in Tom's demeanor. He was more withdrawn than Allan had ever seen him, still as stubborn as ever, but quieter, passive, and cold.

Nemo thought a change in scenery would help draw him out of his shell, which was why they were miles off the English coast in the middle of the Atlantic. Allan had been doubtful that it helped until he went searching for Tom and couldn't find him. He very nearly tore the ship apart before he thought to check the conning tower. The door creaked open loudly and the bright light blinded him momentarily. But when he was able to open his eyes he almost lost his footing when relief, at the sight of the boy by the railing, crashed into him.

Why did he feel the strong urge to throttle the poor American? Allan sighed, heavily, and closed the door with a bang behind him. It was a windy afternoon with darkening storm clouds in the distance.

'Miracle the sun's still shining,' he thought.

And Tom was leaning against the railing as if it were the last bit of sunshine he was allowing himself to soak up. Allan noted the closed eyes as he took a step closer. All of Tom's body language said that he didn't know Allan was there…which was bloody ridiculous for a spy, but not altogether unexpected for whatever dark secrets that he was holding so tightly to his chest. It made his heart heavy to think about how young the boy was, too young in his opinion to be carrying something so large on his own. Briefly, he wondered if it had always been there, and if he'd just been too distracted with the League and his own problems to notice it the first time around.

He sighed and leaned against the railing behind the boy. "Storm's coming," he had to call over the wind.

To his credit, Tom didn't flinch. He turned around and gave Allan a quick glance before turning away. Then he nodded, which was a big step considering his silence over the past few days. Taking a step closer to the boy may have been taking it a step too far, but by this point Allan was fed up with dancing around the issue that he needed to drill into that thick skull of Sawyer's.

"There's something I need to tell you," Allan began. "And I need to know that you're willing to listen, because repeating myself will only serve to waste both our times."

A pause, and then another nod, more sure than the first.

"I'm assuming that you've read that letter by now."

Sawyer's gaze flitted to him once before he turned and pulled the journal out of his pocket. Before he could offer it though, Allan put his hand out and stilled Tom's.

"Keep it. That part of my life is over. And I would intend for all of it to stay that way if I didn't know that you were holding onto one essential piece of it for the wrong reasons." There really was no easy way to say it, and, truth be told, it needed to be said without any sugarcoating, even when Tom looked like he was ready to bolt past him any minute. "Moriarty was the one who brought about my death, not you."

For a split-second Allan thought that Tom would speak, but as the minutes passed he grew more doubtful. A myriad of emotions shone through on the American's face. The last one that Allan saw, however, made him angry. The plainly visible shame was not something he wanted to see, and he would have started in on the boy again if he hadn't heard Tom's whispered reply. "…was a stupid mistake."

"What was?"

"It was my fault he got to you. You died because of me."

"Tom—"

"No! It was! I didn' make sure that man was dead—"

"Reed is dead now, Sawyer—"

"And you still should be," he exclaimed in a shaky voice.

All efforts of comfort be damned. Allan grabbed both bony shoulders roughly and took advantage of that surprise by plowing on before Sawyer could utter another word.

"Stop this foolishness! Right. Now. Don't you bloody dare blame yourself for a choice that was mine to make, boy!"

Sawyer visibly flinched at the older man's tone, and refused to make eye contact. His hair flapped around in the gusts of wind that blew past them, creating a shield of sorts to hide the brunt of what his eyes would have betrayed him with, if he didn't already have a loose tongue. He could see the boy retreating back into his head, but they couldn't afford another bought of silence when so much was already at stake.

"And don't you bloody think it either!" Allan hissed, shaking Sawyer out of his head. "Look at me when I tell you this…What happened in that attic was not your fault. If it's a matter of blame, know that I blame no one but Moriarty for orchestrating that circus to begin with. He brought us together. He invaded our lives. And he ended my own. Not you. You had nothing do to with it because it was not your choice to make."

"Then why did ya go and get yourself killed like that?" Sawyer blurted.

Allan let go of Sawyers shoulders then, stowing his hands in the pockets of his pants, but he kept his feet planted. "It was only ever going to be either you or me. I would never sacrifice you for another breath of life, no matter what the consequences would be. You're much too young to give your life up for anything, let alone anyone."

"That was my job description at the Secret Service," Tom muttered.

"Well, lucky for you, you're not under their jurisdiction out here in the middle of the ruddy ocean."

Tom huffed and focused on the white caps in the water. His knuckles started paling in their death grip on the iron railing, but Quatermain let both slide. At least he had the boy's attention.

"Now," he continued. "I don't expect all of that to soak into that thick skull of yours just yet. But, I will not tolerate seeing that guilt on your face, ever again…Do you understand me?"

Reluctantly, with hard-set eyes and a tense jaw, Tom nodded.

"Good. Turn around."

"Why?" he forced out.

"I want to show you something."

Curiosity worked just as Allan hoped it would. Tom turned with arms crossed. He stepped behind the spy and put a hand on the boy's shoulder. Predictably, he tensed up.

"I want you to look over there, just beyond the door. I want you to remember the last time we were up here, just you and I. Can you do that?"

Tom swallowed, clearly uncomfortable with the whole situation, but he nodded again.

"I want you to look at the boy stepping through the door, approaching me at the rail, and taking that gun from me to prove his worth. I want you to look at that boy, Tom, nowhere else. Take in every detail that you remember."

Little by little, Tom started to relax. His eyes were fixed on ghosts that Quatermain couldn't see anymore. To him the memory was transparent, but he knew it was much more palpable to the boy, and that was something that he knew he could use.

"Do you remember?"

"Yes," came the whispered reply.

"What is that boy thinking about while he's holding that rifle?"

"…nothing important."

"To someone else maybe, but what about him? He wouldn't be thinking it unless it meant something to him. What is that boy thinking about?"

"…nothing that I am. He's…happier."

"Is there so much of a difference between him and you?"

Tom's arms were still crossed, and Allan could practically smell the tears forming in the boy's eyes. Instinct told him that was all he was going to get out Tom today. It was an improvement, sure, but improvements as small as this would not measure up to the larger monster that was waiting to pounce upon its prey once again. Tom needed a better method of defense. Allan wasn't so sure the American would pick up on it just yet, but the seed was planted. And all the hunter could do was wait.

"Do us both a favor," Allan said, turning around before he descended the stairs. "And think about it."

Tom sighed and put a hand over his eyes, massaging the temples with lazy fingertips. The sound of the door shutting still echoed in his head. It sounded so abrupt and final…the very thing he felt that he didn't need to hear right now.

And Quatermain had gotten him talking. Tom winced at how easy it must have been for the older man. But then again, if anyone in the League was going to force words out of his mouth right now, it would have been Quatermain. He was happy it was Allan who came to find him, and not someone like Henry or Skinner, because he wasn't all that sure he could trust himself with anyone else.

'Damn him,' he thought.

The need to keep talking had never been as strong as what it was right now. Keeping quiet about everything didn't make him feel any better, but it didn't make him feel any worse. It kept him calm and made him feel safe, that there was still one part of him in all of this that could stay protected and clean…despite the darkest and most filthy secret about him that was waiting in the recesses. The problem was that it wasn't going away. He was left in the same position that he had been in for ten years, groping around for something to keep the candle lit so he wouldn't be engulfed by the weight of the secret.

Would it really be so terrible to tell someone? Talking to Allan about the guilt he felt over his death seemed to help. It was nice to know that Quatermain didn't blame him and was worried about him.

'But you know exactly what's gonna happen, Sawyer,' that familiar voice said. 'If you let it loose, everyone's gonna find out. People in numbers are harder to convince than one person.'

But if he made Allan promise not to tell anyone…

'How do you know he will? How do you know you can trust him? Can you trust anyone anymore? What makes you think he won't laugh in your face or that he'll be disgusted and leave?'

Because he promised. He promised Tom that he'd listen.

"I want you to know that I will listen, whenever and wherever you need me to, no matter what it is. I will do nothing but listen. I won't judge you. I won't walk away from you."

'Why does he care? He wasn't so warm before was he? What changed? Don't you think he wants something out of this, that this ain't a completely selfless thing he's offerin' you?'

"It kills me to think that I may never see that brash and spirited young agent ever again because of that pain you think no one needs to see. You may not realize it now but your need for privacy will make you suffer more because of it."

Was he suffering? Every damn day since that bastard forced himself into his life. Of course he was suffering. There was an open wound that refused to heal. At first he thought it was just superficial, but then he started to learn how deep it was, how hard it was to reach it. Tom wouldn't have been surprised if it went all the way down to his soul. It would have made sense. He could still hear a part of him screaming from it.

"You are denying yourself your own ability to feel, to be human. By keeping that secret you are allowing yourself to become one of them, someone like Richard Harding."

When he heard those words for the first time it was like a cold hard slap in the face. The suddenness of it made him miss the point at first because he wasn't expecting it. Now though, it brought a cold down into him that he couldn't get rid of. Was that how it really started? Was he already on that road and didn't know it?
'Of course not! You're nothing like that piece of shit! The thought of doin' what he did to those boys has NEVER crossed your mind. And if it ever did you know exactly what you'd do.'

His hand absently traced over the handle of one of his colts. There was no doubt in his mind that he'd put a bullet in his own brain if he needed to. He just prayed to whatever God there was, if there was one at all, that he'd never have to reach that point. He'd be a liar if he didn't admit that he thought about it a few times over the years, but that was only when things got real bad, when he thought he was losin' his mind from the fear and possibility that he never thought would be real again. The truth was that he was living in the nightmare that he'd always dreamed about.

Harding was back, Tom was what he wanted, and there was no chance in hell that he would stop until he got what he wanted. He severely doubted that he was going to be able to do this on his own, not with the League in the way. There were only two options that he could see…and he didn't like either of them.

He left the railing after a strong gust of wind and made his way back down from the conning tower. He was planning on making his way to his room until he saw a bunch of Nemo's men running down the hallway to and from the dining room. Curiosity got the better of him, and just about dragged his feet to the doorway where everyone was gathered around a set of papers on the table.

"What's goin' on?" he heard himself ask.

Everyone looked up, but it didn't bother Tom. The pause of silence that followed did. Some looked at others before turning hesitant eyes back to the youngest one in the room. But all of them had identical looks of determination set onto their faces. Did this mean they were going back out into the field?

"We received a message from Mycroft Holmes," Mina said. "They have made their move, but not the one we've been expecting."

Your spy is dead. You had best tell your brother, Mr. Holmes, that if he is to infiltrate my operation again then he need not come back with a superior means of deception unless he is prepared to leave in his own coffin. Can the world survive without its Sherlock Holmes? Better yet, can the world survive without its precious League to protect them from criminals such as myself? I think I've proven to you, especially, how easy it is for me to get what I want. And after tonight I'll trust that you won't underestimate the master of his greatest adversary ever again.

Remember, I am your puppeteer, your measure, and your maker.

Your task is simple. Save London from itself. There are three weapons planted in the heart of this city, each timed to detonate at the stroke of ten. On the tenth chime, or perhaps before, you will begin to understand how far I've fallen from your tree of deception that you dare to call civilized and enlightened.

It was signed, Tick, Tick, Tick.

Allan had heard enough when both Holmes brothers and their doctor friend figured out what the targets were. Parliament, Westminster Abbey, and the clock tower? At first he wanted to laugh outright at the lunacy of it all, but when the detective explained all of it in painful detail there were no words that seemed fit to describe what he was thinking. Tom had followed after him, predictably, but that did not slow his pace. He barely had time to shout his intended destination before turning the corner in the darkening night.

He could give a damn about where the others intended to go. He was sick of the games and wanted all of it done and over with. God help that man if he even had the gall to be watching somewhere in the shadows. There was a pool of anger somewhere deep inside of him with roots that ran deeper into the recesses of his soul. But this was nothing new, just familiar and invigorating. It gave him purpose.

The idea of hurt, though natural and predictable in their present time, was, in essence, primitive and well beyond any human being with an intellect. Pain and suffering were for the weak. And a common fear among the weak is being left behind to the privacy of their own suffering. The desperation that normally follows captures anyone in its path and grips those unfortunate souls to within inches of their lives if they're not strong enough to resist. He'd lost count of how many times he'd fallen victim to them himself, but he was determined not to let it continue if he could help it. The only way he could do that was with eradicating this new threat and, if he had the chance, uprooting the source of it all.

"Where are we going?" Tom panted, trying to keep up.

"Look up," Allan replied, never faltering in his quick pace.

"Why does this seem so familiar?" Watson whispered, his voice echoing off the dank and wet walls around them.

"Watson, your memory truly is quite appalling if you don't recall the Blackwood case that nearly killed every single man in Parliament all those years ago?" Sherlock replied, equally as quiet. "I'd wager it sparked Professor Moriarty's obsession with economizing modern weaponry."

"I suppose when that didn't work he turned to chasing legends and myths?" Mina asked, attention focused on finding any abnormalities in the dark.

"One would assume, Ms. Harker," Sherlock said. "Although I do believe the correct verb would not be 'chasing,' but rather 'finding,' don't you think?"

"My point, Holmes," Watson interjected. "Is wouldn't it seem too obvious? If Harding had worked with Moriarty, don't you think he would have known about Blackwood?"

"Possibly," was the only reply Watson would ever get. No elaboration. No chance to regain a breath of preparation.

"There is a box chained to the ground a hundred meters in front of us," Mina whispered. "There are no guards."

"That can only mean one thing," Watson sighed. No one answered him, so he turned to where he supposed Holmes was in the dark. "I hope your picking skills have improved over the years, old chap."

"Well, if it's German, then I'm afraid we'll both know the outcome before our five minutes are up."

Watson could only close his eyes and grit his teeth. 'I'm getting too old for this,' he thought as he shrugged out of his coat and hobbled behind Holmes and Ms. Harker.

"This is impossible," Jekyll hissed.

The sheer size of Westminster abbey was one thing. A late mass with parishioners present was something completely different? How were they supposed to find this weapon and ensure the safety of these people without attracting the wrong attention?

"We must find that weapon, doctor," Nemo whispered back.

The shadows of the recessed apses would only hide them for so long. They didn't have much time left either. It wouldn't be a problem for Jekyll to search by himself but there would certainly be places he couldn't go, civilian or not. He ran a trembling hand through his hair and glanced at his watch for the sixth time.

"Where is Skinner?" he whispered. "He said he had an idea but I don't see a bloody thing!"

Then, as if on cue, their problems were solved. It was blasphemous, but it did the job quite effectively. Both men could barely hold back their amusement as they watched the golden plate holding the Eucharist, that the priest was currently blessing, lift off the altar. A dead silence filled the entire cathedral as the plate floated down the aisle. People stared and then started to follow it as it floated out the church doors. Once they were alone, both Jekyll and Nemo looked at the crowd as it continued down the road. Jekyll would have continued watching if Nemo hadn't grasped his shoulder.

"We have five minutes left," the captain said.

Both men started tearing through the church, running, jumping over chairs and tombs, between pillars and around corners. Time dwindled down to two minutes when Jekyll slid to a stop on the marble floor in front of a fairly recent entombment. He didn't need candlelight to tell him whose resting place this chained box rested over, and he also didn't need to glance at his watch to know that he needed Hyde, now.

"Nemo," he shouted over his shoulder.

He fumbled for the vial in his pocket and didn't think about the consequences as he poured the contents down his throat. He would never let go of this blame, of what needed to be done. His would-be mentor, his inspiration, his guiding light in the sciences would be at the mercy of his baser self. But he had no choice in the matter if Darwin's peace was to endure. He just prayed the rivets didn't run deep.

'Enlightenment, indeed,' he thought before Hyde tore through his consciousness.

Gaining access into the clock tower hadn't been the hard part. What they were doing right now was the hard part. Finding this God damned weapon, wherever it was, was like finding a drop of liquor on a Sunday back home, before he knew where to look. Tom took a second to wipe the sweat that had collected on his forehead. The staircases and landings all seemed so similar that it was hard to tell which ones he had rechecked already without looking down to judge by the distance.

Each time he had to he had to reorient himself. America had nothing on this clock tower as far as heights went. He'd rested his rifle somewhere a few flights down when he realized that the only way he was getting back up was without the extra weight. He still had his colts against his chest. The long coat was shed on the last landing to save what dry patches were left on his drenched shirt.

"Find anything yet," Allan called from one flight above.

"No," Tom replied looking up to the next landing. "This is crazy! How're we supposed to find this thing? We've been up and down this tower twice already! We've only got about five minutes left and we don't even know what this thing looks like!"

"Let's try the top again."

Tom didn't have time to protest as Quatermain promptly turned his back and started the trek upwards. He paused for a brief moment to utter a strong curse and reluctantly followed. He was surprised to find that Allan had waited for him. The sight of the perspiring hunter quelled some of his frustration, but it didn't look like Allan was in the best of moods either.

"We'll find this thing," he said with determination in his eyes.

"Sure about that," Tom asked between breaths.

"More than you from what it looks like."

Together they climbed the remaining stairs to the last landing before the top of the tower. By that time there was only a minute left and panic started to blossom in Tom's chest. He couldn't see a damn thing and they were nearly at the top of this damned clock tower. But then he looked up and noticed something on the side supports that were holding the landing aloft.

"Allan," Tom shouted.

'There's no time,' he thought as he ran and jumped over the railing.

"Tom!"

Tom put both hands out to the side as he tried to balance himself. The problem was that he couldn't run to the chained box. Precious seconds ticked by as he stepped closer and Quatermain yelled at his back. When he reached the box he tugged at the chains and was horrified to find that it was riveted to the wooden support. He pulled and tugged with all his might but the box wouldn't move. He turned panicked eyes to Quatermain who met his with an outstretched hand and a decision already made.

"Leave it," he hollered above the chimes that had begun to toll in the tower.

The volume of the bells disoriented him for a second as he tried to regain his balance. He sprinted across the beam, hating himself for giving up with every step. In the last few feet his foot landed on the edge of the support and he very nearly would have fallen over if Allan hadn't been there to grab hold of his right arm. His left arm caught the railing to stop his body from descending but he couldn't pull himself up. It was Quatermain who hauled him over the railing just as the deafening sound of an explosion drowned out the last chime.

The next thing he remembered was waking up with a smoldering piece of wood across his chest. He shoved it off and turned on his side, coughing with watery eyes. He looked up and noticed that they had only fallen to the next level down. So that was why they were still alive. They. Wait. Tom looked around for Quatermain and froze at the sight of the old hunter across the way behind a mess of debris with a bloody face. Once the shock had passed he forced Allan's name past his own bloody lips, his voice hoarse from the smoke. The hunter didn't stir.

Tom gritted his teeth and tried to crawl his way over to the trapped man, biting back a cry of pain and annoyance at what was probably a twisted ankle and another dislocated shoulder. The small trek that he was able to make left him with more cuts and scratches…and he would have said they were worth it if a strong hand that gripped his dislocated shoulder hadn't stopped him and pulled him over. He let loose a scream as his back connected with the hard floor. His eyes closed on instinct until he could fight back the waves of pain. And when he could he looked to see who had…

…

…

No.

His eyes opened wide.

That's…

He couldn't breathe or move.

It can't…

Tears had fallen down the sides of his face.

He's not REAL!

But he was. His hands were holding Tom down. They were splayed on his chest and shoulder, keeping the worst of the tremors that racked his body, unseen.

It was a dream…

But here he was. His hair was thinner, grayer. His left cheek had the same horrible scar. His eyes still sparkled with menace. He was older. Tom fought against analyzing the features he had only seen in his nightmares to preserve the unknown that plagued him for these past few weeks…but he lost. He lost everything in that endless moment where his attacker loomed suspended above him. Intense and familiar fear shrank him smaller than he thought possible. His want to thrash wildly or scream in terror had both been neutralized by the unveiling of his faceless attacker and childhood…rapist.

"Breeeeathe," Harding whispered as he let his face fall closer to Tom's.

A gasp burst free and he greedily breathed what air in that he could. He had to close his eyes. But that didn't stop the tears that followed, nor the feeble sounds that laced his attempt at breathing, not passing out.

"Open those beautiful eyes."

He sobbed and tried to shift under the weight of those hands, but had to obey when one of them seized his throat and squeezed. Once he did the pressure disappeared…but the touch remained. He was trapped in a body that was deaf to his mind crying for action, for defense.

"You know what I want," he said.

Tom shook his head slowly, dreading what was going to come.

"Listen to me, boy! Look at Quatermain…LOOK AT HIM!"

Tom cried harder but listened when Harding put more pressure on his shoulder.

"It would be so easy for me to finish him, to finish your League for that matter. Do you want that? No? You keep running and that's what's going to happen. Now. You want to protect your 'family'? You want me to stop all the fucking around? Then you come to me. Tonight. Alone. You'll know where. Holmes has made sure of it by telling you what I've been up to while looking for you."

He lingered, eyes tracing his face, fingers restless on his chest and exposed throat.

"It's always been your choice, Thomas. Everything that's happened is because of you. Remember that. I'm giving you one last chance. Don't fuck it up!"

And as quickly as Harding had appeared, he was gone, like his nightmares… but a million times worse than his nightmares. He was real. He had been here. And…touched him…stars started filling his vision. The tears were still falling, but harder than ever now. He forced himself to breathe, trying to convince himself that he was not crying or that the sounds he was making was out of pain and not fear.

It was a loud groan from somewhere below him that broke through the shock. He felt the vibration and whipped his head to the side where Quatermain was breathing and stirring. Somehow he found the will to move. But even the familiar sight of Allan's eyes couldn't comfort him now. He knew what he had to do.

I hope this makes up for that last chapter, even if the beginning is a BIT cliché, what with the weather and all. And I could have left you with a cliffhanger but I decided not to…because I think cliffhangers are evil. The game plan from here on out is that I'm going to start writing these chapters in bulk so I don't keep skipping weeks. And I still read reviews, so thank you big time for those boosts of confidence because they're always helpful! I could probably use a few after these crappy weeks I've been having. Let me know what you think!

-Rainsaber

Ps. As a preview for the next chapter 3 characters' lives will be put into question. Any guesses? One hint: one of them did not speak at all in this chapter.

And yes if you're wondering about the title of this chapter it was borrowed from the new Linkin Park single that's out. If it hadn't been for that song this chapter would not exist and I'd still be banging my head against a wall. Plus I think the word fits.

Also the Blackwood case Sherlock and Watson are talking about was a reference to the recent Sherlock Holmes movie. I'm still trying to find a balance between the Robert Downey Jr. portrayal and the character in Conan Doyle's stories, so bear with me.

And one more important piece of business. Nothing was meant by the Westminster Abbey section. I grew up Catholic and still believe in God. I just kind of wrote myself into a corner and thought...hey, invisible man...i could use that! So, no offense to anyone at all!